


Hope; feathers

by fiercynn



Series: Hoping Beyond [1]
Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Art, Future Fic, M/M, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiercynn/pseuds/fiercynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dakin's not one for art; it's nothing more than idle curiosity that gets him into the museum. But now he's old enough and experienced enough to take lessons in unexpected forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope; feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/gifts).



> Written for the Yuletide 2007 fic exchange. Originally posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1641836).

It's an exhibit at the local art museum that sets Dakin off. He wanders in one day during his lunch break after seeing the sign "History regained" as the title, and it turns out to be a set of connected paintings by a somewhat peculiar artist. The sequence of the paintings build up the story of a woman, the ordinary stages of life depicted in soft, faded colors. Each step has some quirk, something that is just slightly off at first but, once apparent, becomes almost glaring to the eye.

And as he's distracted by the singular, hidden oddities in each piece, he doesn't notice how the paintings flow into each other and build onto the woman's life, step by step – until he reaches the last, a replica of the first painting, but with all the strange qualities magnificently thrust in and the past playing on the present in an eerie yet lifelike way.

Dakin's not one for art; it's nothing more than idle curiosity that gets him into the museum. But now he's old enough and experienced enough to take lessons in unexpected form. There's no doubt that the patterns here are interesting, and his historian's brain turns on to pick them apart.

The oddities remind him of Hector: or, rather, Hector's take on the poetry of Emily Dickinson.

"Don't give up on her so easily," he would urge, though the boys had always been scornful of the simplicity and the repetitious nature of her verses. "All of her works have something different in the lines, a rhyme that does not quite fit, a misplaced image – not a secret, but a hint at where to focus your attention to find a hidden truth."

It wasn't that Dakin had been disbelieving of this; he just hadn't cared. His sense of entitlement, fueled by Irwin's credo that everything should be _interesting_, had kept him from seeing the value in subtleties. Not only he, of course – Posner's open declarations and blatant displays, Scripps' unmistakable passion for the sounds of words, they were all part of the same folly.

Irwin, though. Irwin, despite being only a few years older, and despite his debatable strategies for studying history, had definitely crossed the invisible border into nuanced understanding. Perhaps it was that more than the difference in position which made him afraid of what Dakin had to offer. Dakin can remember it so clearly. He almost wishes he could now see his own brash, terrifyingly simple attempts at reaching out, if only to cringe at them from his vantage point of the present. _Uncomplicated_, indeed.

He leaves the exhibit with these facts still ruminating in his mind, and it occurs to him that it's strange how quickly he was able to relate it to Hector and school and so, back to Irwin. Not that he dwells on that part of his life all the time, but the connections are there more often than he would have expected or, well, wanted. The only way he can think of Irwin is in romantically melodramatic terms, grand statements that are always hypothetical, though he doesn't want to be the kind of person that still wishes in the subjunctive.

After all, Dakin is…happy. Well, content. He has friends and he has money and even though he's not a heartless bastard, he never really expected the kind of epic love ideal that seems to make clocks tick and teeth shine. He's been in love. Sometimes it's been unrequited, and sometimes even when it is returned _he's_ the one who is dumped, and it hurts. But with all those, all the real, adult situations, he could never imagine himself falling for the same person again; he'd never said or even thought, "Someday, maybe someday…" because that's not how it worked.

Which makes the whole Irwin thing seem even more youthful and flighty – despite its recurring presence in his mind, he thinks of it more as an often-revived fashion than a constant, solid trend. Bell-bottoms may pop up again every few decades in a cyclical fashion (though God knows why), but they're still just a phase. A youthful fancy. The first one that got away, and for reasons beyond his control, which would have been frustrating for anyone.

But it should not have been more than just a frustration, and perhaps a mild regret. It shouldn't be relevant to his thinking all these years later when he's pondering the thematic elements of a work of art. Maybe this is why he doesn't like art, he thinks as he leaves the museum.

*

Convenient, perhaps, that he's meeting Scripps for dinner a few days later. He explains everything the way he's always done, openly but unemotionally, with just a smidgen of self-confidence thrown in to shield himself – though Scripps, of course, gets it.

"You idiot," he says finally. Mr. Journalist Scrippsy, picking away at his words with a scalpel to make them not only dry and unbiased but also hard and sharp, almost matching Dakin for pointedness, except for the sheen of poeticism that still remains on the surface. "That's what love is. History as well. Repetition and the thought or hope that it's only temporary, but, of course, reality intercedes."

"Dangerous, this habit of generalizing," Dakin remarks.

"Journalists are allowed to generalize," pronounces Scripps, making his point, "especially about history. The world's a big place, we'd never get anything done if we didn't."

"And what are we trying to get done here?"

"Fix up your life, you sod. You're too complacent, and it's dangerous. What you need is either to call him and be rejected so that you can have proper feelings about this, or call him and meet him and everything will be sunshine and rainbows."

"Either way involves calling him."

Scripps peers at him. "I know you're not scared – or, not in the usual way. What are you afraid of, then?"

Honestly, Dakin's not quite sure himself. Part of it is that he could have approached Irwin at any time in the past fourteen years and he wants to trust the instinct in him that kept him from doing it.

Then again, history weighing down on him is part of the problem, and the longer he draws it out, the worse it will get.

"Maybe I just don't want 'proper feelings' at all," he says, and Scripps rolls his eyes.

"Things haven't changed that much, then." That's a point in favor of calling, probably.

*

This is the truth: Irwin is the one who got scared.

Dakin shouldn't have been surprised. There was no time for Irwin to be fully convinced of anything before Hector died and everything was thrown up into a whirlwind of endings and beginnings, and this – whatever might have existed between them – was not solid enough to be either. Irwin got scared, and Dakin at the time was made up of so perilous a mixture of ego, desire, and poetic hope that he was…fragile. On that day, Dakin had gone to see Irwin at the hospital, white-faced and confused, but when he arrived he'd realized that Irwin looked far worse, and not only from his injury.

Dakin, for once, hadn't pushed. He wasn't sure he even regretted that part of it. Irwin was – older, perhaps not wiser, but more experienced, and Dakin had already made the first move.

Now it's easier for Dakin to look from the villain's perspective. Irwin would have had to deal with his own fears and those that Dakin himself felt, which Dakin, despite any natural perspicacity to read and understand character, was just too young and self-centered to reach out for. Maybe a bit more self-centered than young, but the two often went hand-in-hand. Just because Dakin gets it now doesn't make it any easier, but he can at least stop blaming Irwin so thoroughly for it. What you understand, you forgive.

Besides, if Irwin cared at all, Dakin knows that he would have blamed himself enough for twenty people. It's a bit comforting to imagine that such things also never change.

*

Dakin can't find Irwin's number in the phone book, so he sends a note care of the television station. It's short and to the point: _It's been a long time. Shall we meet up for a drink or something? Stuart Dakin_. And his phone number.

Irwin calls back mid-morning a few days later, and it's only coincidence that Dakin has no work and actually catches it.

"Yes?"

"Oh," says Irwin, and to Dakin's embarrassment, his heartbeat stutters for a moment. Irwin sounds startled, unprepared, and Dakin's glad even if it means this conversation will be awkward – anything is better than having to listen to Irwin's bland television voice in what would presumably be a scripted message. "Hello. I thought – "

"I was wondering when you'd call," Dakin says obviously.

"I've been quite busy." Evasive as usual. "But, I'm free now," he continues hesitantly.

"What, right now?"

There's a pause, a swift intake of breath, the sound of decision-making in process. "Well, yes, in the afternoon. There's a wonderful café near the station – is three good for you?"

*

Coffee's not quite the drink Dakin had always imagined for this particular reunion, but Irwin's probably still nervous. The café is small but modern, with carefully circular tables and scalding hot lattes. Dakin's goes cold, though, as he sits waiting. Punctuality has grown on him over the years like stubble on his chin; although he can still always get away with almost anything, he's come to be the type of person who has a routine. _Habits_. No wonder Scripps thinks he's complacent. Now he is just a bit early and Irwin is just a little late. Dakin isn't sure what to read into the second fact there, so he doesn't try.

Irwin arrives finally, glancing sideways out of his glasses as he enters the store, and Dakin straightens up in his chair. Irwin looks – well, older, with eyes more narrow than he remembers, and with a different haircut. Dakin suddenly remembers the absurd hairdo that he'd sported back in his school days and he has an irrational moment of fear that Irwin won't recognize him because of it. But, of course, he does, giving the tiniest of smiles when he sees Dakin at his table, and strides over.

"Hello," he says, his smile almost painful to look at.

"Hi," says Dakin, "you're late," but he's smiling as well. Irwin looks sheepish and _that_ even hits too close to home, so Dakin continues, "Can I get you a drink?" There are no waiters, only baristas, and he feels the awkwardness of the situation. He wishes they'd gone to a pub.

"Ah, no, I can get it," Irwin says hurriedly, and stalks back up to the counter.

When he returns, they indulge in small talk. Dakin is curious – he hadn't bothered or wanted to find out any details about Irwin's life beforehand, but now he finds it interesting. Irwin doesn't mention his few other years of teaching at Cutler, just explains the process of making his show. Dakin, in turn, doesn't hesitate to recall old people or times, but mentions Scripps and Oxford and his job in ways that are hardly volatile.

"Oxford," says Irwin, "was it everything you dreamed of?"

"I suppose." Dakin frowns at the thought. "I remember Oxford, but I can't quite remember what my dreams were beforehand."

"You were happy, though?"

The answer is easy. "Of course. Always am." The question is whether _happiness_ is enough.

Irwin looks resigned. "I – " He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt, then places them back on his nose firmly. "I assume," his voice going a bit softer, "or, assumed, that you wanted to talk about…the past."

Dakin leans back in his chair. He's improved in subtlety, and a vicious part of him wants to force Irwin to be the opposite, to stop playing the game. Which of course means that Dakin has to continue it. "Well, that is a broad topic, but well-fit for historians. How about you begin? "

Again, resigned, but it makes Irwin actually answer the question. "All right. I'm sorry for everything. Back then, I mean."

And Dakin's not even expecting that much acknowledgment of fault. Irwin must have thought about this more than Dakin realized, and there are no explanations, no lies he's giving. It's alarming and exciting in equal parts.

"You were scared," he says pointedly.

"Weren't we all?" says Irwin with a bitter laugh. "I never denied that. Hector made an impression on me even before he died. "

Dakin wants to ask, _And now?_ But fear is not the issue. It's whether there's anything worth salvaging, and though he's invested himself in this, he's just not sure about Irwin. Now that he's here, he's not sure he can handle being fooled twice, intentionally or not.

He can't express it in words or questions, which is a crippling weakness in itself for Dakin. But maybe there's another way. He stands up suddenly, Irwin looking startled, and Dakin has to smile at least at that. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."

He takes Irwin to the art exhibit. _Just the icing on the cake_, maybe, but Irwin looks at it the same way that he does, backwards and forwards, lighting on patterns and variations with fascination. And Dakin tells him about Emily Dickinson, about Death stopping with _eternity_ following _day_ as the final, absurd rhyme, about Hector and just a little bit about subtlety, in case Irwin hadn't noticed.

"So everything that goes wrong points to the end," says Irwin. They're standing in front of the last painting, and it's even more jarring than Dakin remembers.

"Or makes the cycle repeat itself, perhaps," Dakin points out.

"Oh, I don't know if the 'history repeats itself' argument quite applies here," says Irwin lightly. "Sometimes things are forced to repeat. Not everything just _happens_ on its own. People do stuff, remember?"

Their eyes meet. "Yes," says Dakin, "and sometimes it doesn't work, right? Sometimes there are mistakes, and those can be repeated too."

Irwin sucks in a breath again. "And then you try to fix them. And you keep trying, because they keep happening."

"Seems futile."

"But it's worth it." Irwin glances at the painting again, and then back up the row of paintings on the walls, with all the various follies that build on each other individually. "If these problems had been fixed before, if they were identified and dwelt upon and rehashed in this woman's mind, then maybe there would have been a chance of fixing them before the end, and the end may not have been so tragic to behold."

Dakin just keeps looking at him, a slight smirk on his face that he knows must make him look like a jackass – but, well, that's who Irwin fell for in the first place, and Irwin deserves it a little.

Irwin ducks his head, giving another little laugh. "You know that, don't you. And I suppose – I suppose I know that too." He smiles at Dakin again, that soul-baring smile that Dakin used to think of as shattering – first because it displayed Irwin's emotions in such an open, guilt-ridden manner, but then because it struck something in Dakin as well, some forgotten, unplayed chord of pure eagerness and desire. Dakin used to be almost afraid of it, as if that physical confession could be contagious and seep into his own façade of bravado. Irwin, after all, had only ever lied verbally. Now Dakin is glad for any modicum of honesty, this especially, and he can't help but return the wide grin.

*

They go back to Dakin's. He'd felt a burst of curiosity at the thought of Irwin's place – though, to be honest, his feelings sparked of unfulfilled fantasies more than inquisitiveness – but his flat is closer, so. He unlocks the door with calm hands but a fumbling heartbeat, and when they go in he does have a little trouble turning on the light. Irwin blinks around, almost investigating, peering at the books on his shelf while Dakin hangs up his coat and puts the keys away.

He turns around to face Irwin and remembers suddenly, "Dinner! Slipped my mind completely. Can I make you something?" He's too jittery to think about cooking and too nervous, fuck, to take it back.

"I'm not sure I could eat right now," Irwin admits, "and, well, _the heart asks pleasure first_."

It's enough for Dakin. He closes the space between them, cupping one hand around the back of Irwin's neck and fingering the hair at the nape. Irwin's eyes are flecked with green and brown, luminous through the clear sequential picture frames that distort and hide.

"Your glasses," he murmurs, lips barely moving.

"Right," Irwin breathes, "right," taking them off, and once that line is crossed Dakin leans in to finish off the years.

It takes them a while to make it to the bedroom, Dakin forgetting his usual one-night stand choreography because of the way Irwin is blinking down at him between gasps and the taste of Irwin's mouth on his. They finally stumble through the doorway of the dark bedroom. Dakin's hands are clutching at Irwin's waist, and he feels for the button of his trousers as he steers them towards the bed, slipping it off clumsily. He starts to pull the trousers down but now Irwin's kissing is neck and sliding his hands up Dakin's shirt.

"Slow down," Irwin tells the edge of his jaw. Dakin wants to argue that the past fourteen years have been an exercise in foreplay, but his breath catches in his throat when he tries because Irwin's brushing a nipple and _oh_, well, maybe that's the point.

They fall onto the bed eventually, and Irwin finally lets Dakin undress him. Dakin goes slowly and quickly in turns, letting his mouth linger on the space above Irwin's hipbones before rapidly drawing off his pants and boxers. Irwin is hard, yeah, but Dakin takes time to lick at the insides of his thighs and breathe on the tip of his cock before wrapping it with his hand.

He strokes and Irwin's breath comes faster, edging Dakin on, until there's nothing he can do except take it in his mouth. He's done this before; clearly, there have been men in his life, and not few or far between. But this is the climax of his first fantasies, repainted on a different canvas and with new circumstances, but repeated nonetheless. He licks and sucks until Irwin's gasps turn to moans, and Dakin swallows down the unlikely end of this epic verse, the taste bitter as usual but, then again, oh so sweet.

*


End file.
